Safety
by dorian dark
Summary: Ruminations on TBag and his psyche, exploring his twisted desires, and some desires that are all together more normal and innocent. Some language and implicit sexual references, some slash.


AN: so, here is my first attempt at PB fic, focussing on T-Bag, a character defined by conflicts and juxtapositions. I'm not a Psychology student, and even if I were I think it'd be impossible to classify T-Bag in any way, so I have no idea what motivates him and creates such an extreme range of reactions and desires within him. I think that's what makes his character so compelling. I hope you enjoy these explorations of his relationships and his unpredictable reactions. dd xx

Warnings: sexual themes (umm…major warning, T-Bag involved in _consensual _sex for once), some language, general despair, blood, pain etc etc. Also, S1 spoilers only. Also, witness my complete inability to write T-Bag's dialogue, or to disguise the painfully obvious fact that I am British, rather than American. Heartfelt apologies...

Disclaimer: not mine. Not the characters, not the lyrics (to 'This Thing Called Love' and 'I Close My Eyes'), not the general premise. Sob.

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'I haven't done this since I was seventeen,' she says breathlessly, her hair across her face. The occasional bare patches of her skin glow between the disarray of clothes, and she is laughing eagerly. 'In a car, I mean…' she giggles again, and tightens her hold on his forearm.

The handbrake nudges his side and he realises he hasn't done this, ever. There have been few encounters involving laughter, and mutual joy, much less encounters in parked cars on hillsides with dimmed headlights and muted Dusty Springfield cassettes and women so perfect, so _welcoming _as to bring him to tears.

His hands are freezing, despite the heat of their bodies and the valiant car radiator, and she gasps with each caress. Her eyes are black, the pupils invisible in the darkness of the car.

Preferable, this involuntary, human reaction to his touch? He has had his fill of cold, clammy meat and unconscious, pliable skin, or struggling, writhing bodies. Her small, honest spasms are entirely new to him, and for once he cannot decipher them – he is used to the quivers of terror, the rigidity of dead flesh, the clenching of unwilling muscle, but inviting, twisting woman fills him with uncertainty and trepidation.

'Okay?' he asks nervously, his own breath ragged and low. His hand dips to her exposed throat and traces the outline of her necklace.

'Please,' she gasps. He can take his time, if he wishes – a luxury never before afforded, hidden in furtive cabins and dying fields, screwing wildly, bloodlust and desire combined in a vicious hybrid – but for her, he will hurry, he will obey.

They fall into a tumbled embrace, trousers kicked down to contorted ankles and upholstery scratching bare backs. He feels virginal, bestowing pleasure upon a woman for the first time, watching her lovely face as she blossoms. Words, the words are escaping him, there are no words to replace his usual harsh whispering threats and morbid promises, so he contents himself with ragged breaths and her name, light and wonderful on his tongue.

They lie in silence, suddenly acutely aware of the awkwardness of their own bodies, of their own wrinkles and gently drooping features, and of the time.

'The kids…I have…I have to get back…' she has still not regained normal speech. There is a dazed look in her eyes that reminds him of violence. He closes his eyes and kisses her forehead.

'Of course. Why don't you put on that there blouse, and I shall convey you to your humble abode…'

She nods dumbly, smoothing her hair frantically, biting her lip anxiously. The drive is silent, somehow strained.

'Teddy,' she says. 'It's not…you mustn't think…I wouldn't normally do things like that…so soon. Please, Teddy.'

His eyes flicker from the road to her pale face, flashing in pulsing streetlamps, and he does not smile. 'I would _never_ think anything of the sort about you. What_ must_ you be thinking of this poor hillbilly, dragging you off to the woods after…sating his culinary appetites, and seducing you in a manner most vile and iniquitous? Mrs Hollander, you deserve to be wooed with…words and roses and chivalry, not with my…ineffectual groping…' he grins suddenly, and she laughs shakily, her hands folded in her lap.

Her eyes meet his hungrily and one soft finger plays with the fingers of his right hand, idle on the dashboard. 'I don't deserve _anything_, Theodore Bagwell,' she says quietly. 'Least of all you.'

'Aww, now, Susan, now that's just corny,' he says lightly, to cover the sudden leap of his stomach. Her words are loaded with the future, and with unknown domesticity and tame, blissful habits. He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses the palm gently, not daring to look at her.

They are at her door, lights are glowing from the children's bedroom, and the sitter's car is parked in the yard. Her silhouette is blurred in the porch light as she turns and waves to him, the shy smile still burned on his brain. He wonders what he should do with her, and is alarmed to find his thoughts stray to bright, daylit flower stalls and clandestine meetings in the warmth of her home. The thought of her blood spilling from tattered gashes flashes across his mind and anger pulses through him, hating the malicious few who would hurt her. Her shadow splashes across the blinds, leaning over the children to kiss them goodnight, as he drives away, hoping she put the chain across to keep the devils out.

He will be her knight, and bring her bashful smiles and promises he has never before uttered, and save her from darkness and loneliness. He will keep her safe, and she will salvage him in turn.

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I used to write my mother every day. _Mom, I love you. I'm being good. I'll be out soon. _Lyrics, from my childhood, standing on her feet, dancing stiffly. Frank Sinatra, Buddy Holly, Johnny Cash. I thought of her reading my awkward little sentences, with their empty promises and censored stories, and my resolve to make this all right again took hold of me with frightening ferocity.

Lately, my letters are further apart, and shorter, and shorn of all honesty.

_There is some fighting in here, Momma, but my new friends keep me safe. _

I don't write lyrics any more

For her birthday, a week ago, I wracked my brains, and covered my letter with my hand while I was writing it, like a school test in third grade, so noone would see it and laugh at me for my fervent emotions - _ever since time, nothing's ever been found that's stronger than love. _

In the time between, I have forgotten what love is. I am all about loyalty and submission and silent suffering these days, and I'd rather not think about my mother with the same brain that thinks such deathly thoughts.

Besides, the lyrics in my head have been wiped out. He listens to one battered tape, and hums quietly under his breath, his eyes flickering to me from time to time. _I close my eyes, and count to ten, and when I open them, he's still there._

He tries to confide in me from time to time – sometimes I honestly believe he thinks we are friends, partners, equals.

'A lady friend of mine used to listen to these here tunes,' he says, running his tongue over his teeth, and looking up to the ceiling. 'Boy…shoulda seen her, Cherry. A real first class woman, my girl. My good fortune to find a real proud Kansas princess…we had some swell times together, in that foreign country we call the past…'

I nod and smile a twisted grimace of encouragement.

'Unfortunately,' he continues, his face blank, 'circumstances conspired to end our relationship. But I find this music conjures up those sweet memories of her that I cherish in these dark and doomed days.'

I have memories I could resort to, too, little precious gemstones of reminiscence, kisses I have shared, sunsets I have watched, sands I have felt between my toes. But I have no desire to resort to them in my darkest times. It is better to go absent myself entirely, to hide within myself, to wipe my mind and rise above the rhythmic shaking of the bunk and the stretching, splitting pain that slices my dignity and humanity as well as my body.

He is my safety and my shelter. I have seen many my age fall beneath malicious, racist blows in this place, and envied them their purely physical scars. The fabric of his pocket is soft like a well-used handkerchief, worn and bobbly with the tight hold of desperate, weak-willed boys. It stands for protection, and total surrender, and I feel like Lady Macbeth scrubbing away at my hands in the shower, his hungry eyes constantly on my body. I have sold my identity for flimsy promises of security, and received hell in return. Excuse me if I wallow in cliché and add: I have sold my soul to the devil himself.

'Was she a good fuck, then, this bitch of yours?' my voice is high with false bravado, and I am already shrinking into the wall, anticipating the beating I crave, instead of humiliating, invasive caresses loaded with malice and supremacy.

'You say that again, Cherry,' he hisses, and his voice promises pain and degradation later, 'and I'll slit you open from your pretty little throat to your unfortunate genitalia.'

I would give anything to have him strike me, maim me, throw me to the floor. It is thoughts of violence and cracking bones that I hold onto while he rapes me, not thoughts of my mother's cooking, or the glint of sunshine on the pennies in a fountain, or my gratitude that I am under his protection, part of his depraved family. That, and escape plans that bud and grow in my closed mind.

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AN: You like? Thoughts and comments on a postcard please. I hope to expand this into a series of one-shots based on themes such as _Farewell, Temptation, Plans, _and_ Regeneration. _I hope you enjoyed this enough to come back and read these later instalments. dorian dark xx 


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